Mutant metal

Wonderdrug's Unnatural selections

by Carly Carioli

Boston is sorta like the Galápagos Islands of heavy metal, its myriad species evolving in relative isolation, benefitting from the singular natural resources of the place, the way the diversity of the surrounding miasma (punk, hardcore, pop artisanry, enforced-obliqueness indie rock) seeps in. The weird, wonderful, repugnant mutation of metal this city has sprouted is documented on Wonderdrug's 21-track Up the Dosage compilation, a cross-section of unreleased material from the area's heaviest hitters, from the savage cro-magnon beatings of Anal Cunt and Blood for Blood to the hints of a higher species of melody in tracks by Honkeyball and Miltown.

On Galápagos they got really big turtles -- in Boston we got Scissorfight, who in addition to their appearance on Up the Dosage just released their second disc, Balls Deep (Wonderdrug). Only Heaven knows what Darwin woulda made of Ironlung, the six-foot-plus behemoth with the shaved head and the Santa Claus beard who gyrates, conducts, and otherwise leads this dastardly crew into battle. Heck, what would Harry Smith have made of this? LOVE CHILD OF G.G. ALLIN AND Z.Z. TOP FRONTS HIDEOUSLY DEFORMED SOUTHERN-DEATH-ROCK ENSEMBLE: CIVIL WAR GENERAL, CAPTAIN KIDD, NATURALIST MEET VIOLENT ENDS; HANGMAN FOUND DRUNK. WHITE WHALE MANGLES NANTUCKET OCEAN FREIGHTER; SURVIVORS EAT EACH OTHER. SHOWMAN CALLS OFF SEARCH FOR RARE BEAST AFTER SCOUT TEAM FOUND MUTILATED; EXHIBITION PLANS SCRAPPED.

Scissorfight are, among other things, Boston's heavy-metal mascots, a distinction they owe to their sheer physical size and to that size's accompanying sonic equivalent: like Skynyrd with salmonella, or Discharge on moonshine, amps to 11, guitars detuned until everything comes out rubbery and gagging. No one else could have gotten away with a song called "Planet of Ass," an R. Crumb cartoon come to life. On their 1996 Wonderdrug debut, Guaranteed Kill, the chorus of their ode to porn star Gina Fine -- "Fine me!" -- sounded less like a primitive mating call than a warning of imminent disaster: "Timber!" or "Look out below!"

"So long, fuckface," Ironlung sneered as he left the stage at a recent show -- leaving the crowd to figure out that he wasn't talking to anyone specifically. He meant everyone: all of you, fuckface. It's not just that Scissorfight aren't ashamed to be shameless, it's that with Ironlung as a given, anything less would seem like a copout.

Despite the muddy production that seems to plague Wonderdrug releases, Balls Deep comes on like a herd of rabid buffalo. Bassist Paul Jarvis and drummer Kevin Shurtlief -- Ironlung's brother and a musician with a résumé that includes studio and tour stints with Peter Wolf, Richard Davies, and Laurie Sargent -- don't create rhythm so much as visceral throb. Guitarist Jay "Octocock" Fortin has a tone that's invasively sickening and corrosive, with surprising little fills (a Chuck Berry solo in the middle of a thrash breakdown) that sound like a massive beast's deathbed snarls or a sinking ship's final triumphant gurgle. And then there's Ironlung, a larger-than-life man singing about people being vanquished, mauled, by larger-than-life beasts, mobs, whales, the Wendigo. (Even the in-jokes are larger than life: the design of the CD itself is lifted from the vinyl label for Elvis's "Aloha Via Satellite," right down to the "as recorded Jan. 14, 1973.") With more songs set before the year 1900 than any rock singer I can think of, this man sees himself not as a social artifact, a product of his times, a mere aggregation of what has happened to and around him, but as a product of biology and history. He is what makes Scissorfight, like Moby Dick, quintessentially American.

But even Scissorfight, local icons as they are, would be seen anywhere else as iconoclasts. Up the Dosage is a definitive portrait of what goes on here, and you will find but one band -- Staind, who used to double as a cover band on Saturday nights in Fitchburg -- who kow-tow to the fashionable Pantera/Deftones idiom that's getting signed these days. Sure, there's the tried-and-true hardcore contingent -- Porn Star, Diecast, and Blood for Blood, who're about to release an album on Victory. But for every genre-specific tune, there are three that defy categorization (Quintaine Americana's "The Good Things," Claymore's "If It Hurts, Repeat It," and 6L6's "Timebomb," for example), as well as a few that inspire genres on their own, including filthcore god Seth Putnam's latest tasteless one-liner, "I Sold Your Dog to a Chinese Restaurant." And Roadsaw, who were bringing back Sabbathy stoner-age metal before Fu Manchu, pack the bong for "Le Finger" -- which refers not to the middle finger, as you'd expect, but the index, sort of like the metal equivalent of the Evil Eye.

If Darwin were around, he might tell you Boston metal bands have inherited a gene that prevents them from taking themselves too seriously. To which Ironlung would probably respond, "Quit analyzing and get me a whiskey and coke, fuckface."

Wonderdrug holds a CD-release party for Up the Dosage this Friday, April 3, at Mama Kin with Roadsaw, 6L6, Scissorfight, Honkeyball, Slughog, Miltown, Quintaine Americana, Big Wig, and Porn Star. Call 56-2100.